


i don't want to fight

by semisemi (artifice)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Depression, Gen, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 13:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17561270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artifice/pseuds/semisemi
Summary: Eita feels something inside of him fracture, but he nods all the same.After all, if he isn’t worth Coach Washijou’s attention, he isn’t worth anything.





	i don't want to fight

**Author's Note:**

> so, few things.
> 
> 1) trigger warning for depression.
> 
> 2) semi had like 4 lines that hinted at an angsty past that he got over, but after rewatching lady bird, my traitorous brain told me to do a variant of the Mom Scene. yeah, That One. and i got to thinking, "what would it be like if semi hadn't gotten over being demoted?" in this fic, his demotion is exaggerated, but like, same concept. 
> 
> 3) honestly? just based on the haikyuu manga and anime, no character has ever resonated with me the same way i resonate with semi. also, he has! the ! same birthday as me ! ! i've headcanoned/written him based on a lot of personal experience because of this, so if his spiral sounds unrealistic, then i'm sorry! just writing off what i know.
> 
> 4) title from prey by the neighbourhood.

_**You won't let me inside** _  
_**Oh, you push me away** _  
_**You'll never change** _  
_**Just another fight** _  
_**Between you and your pride** _  
_**Oh, what more can I say?** _

 

* * *

 

 

“1st string setter, Shirabu Kenjirou,” Coach Washijou reads out from his clipboard, features relaxed in a state of boredom.

 

Eita can take that. He knows Shirabu is more reliable, less of a loose cannon on the court, and for the good of Shiratorizawa, he’ll be a reserve setter.

 

Except he doesn’t even make _that_.

 

Tendou gives him a pitying glance from across the circle of boys, but it does absolutely nothing to alleviate the shame building in his chest. He’s in his third year of high school, and he’s been tossed aside in the one thing that matters to him. Useless.

 

With gritted teeth, Eita pushes all the anger and frustration he can manage into practice. With every perfect serve, with every perfect receive, Eita glances over at Coach Washijou, silently begging him to notice.

 

And yet, the old man never does.

 

“Focus, Shirabu!” He yells loudly enough that the whole gym can hear him. If Eita thought he couldn’t feel any worse, he was sorely mistaken. The anger and shame give way to hurt and exhaustion, and at the end of practice, he leaves without talking to anybody.

 

After all, if he isn’t worth Coach Washijou’s attention, he isn’t worth anything.

 

 

 

 

 

After that fateful practice, Eita stops going. He can’t be bothered, and it’s not like anybody _cares_. The other third years have greater things to worry about than a benchwarmer like him.

 

Hence, Eita does the only other thing he can: study. He’s in his final year of high school, and final exams are inevitable, and since volleyball isn’t a viable scholarship opportunity anymore, he has to make sure he gets to university on his own academic merit. Not that he had been particularly hardworking or rational before, but before, he had volleyball.

 

Now? He supposes Communications is something he can pursue and live comfortably with. The world is rapidly advancing in technology, after all, and if Japan wants to get to the top of the heap, they’re going to need to bridge the international gap.

 

His musing is interrupted by sharp knocking at his door.

 

“Semisemi, open up!” Eita can recognize Tendou’s voice from a mile away. “Open up, you lazy bastard, you’ve missed practice for more than a week, and we want to know why.”

 

The other boy’s voice is muffled through the door, but Eita feels the last phrase cut into his bones, sharp and reprimanding. Sighing, he puts his pencil down, slides his chair back, and opens the door.

 

He didn’t think the humiliation could burn more, but burn more it _does_ upon the sight of Tendou, Ushijima, and Shirabu’s concerned faces.

 

“Are you _studying?_ ” Shirabu asks, incredulous. Eita draws his lips in a thin line, a biting retort on his tongue raring to go before he remembers that this is the boy who upstaged him, who took away what was supposed to be his. He may be the upperclassman here, but Shirabu has long-since surpassed him. They’re not on equal playing field anymore.

 

Eita blinks instead, struggling to keep his face neutral. “Yes. What did you want?”

 

Then, out of nowhere, Shirabu _bows_. This time, he doesn’t emanate his usual passive-aggressiveness, and somehow seems genuine as he shouts out an apology.

 

“—your place, I thought for sure that Washijou would make you a reserve setter, but I apologize regardless!”

 

Eita doesn’t really know what to say (“ah, yes, thank you for admitting that you’re better than I am, that must have been _so_ hard for you!”), so he blinks again and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

 

An intelligent “oh,” is all that ends up escaping him, and even Ushijima looks unimpressed.

 

“Is that it?” Eita hears himself asking. He didn’t know when he became so uncaring, but he supposes he’s still learning from Washijou.

 

Tendou looks genuinely concerned, but he knows boundaries when he sees them, and he’s not notorious for his intuition for _nothing_ , so the group follows his lead as he frowns and says, “yeah. Bye, Semi.”

 

Eita closes the door and sits back down at his desk, but somehow, the textbooks in front of him seem unreadable.

 

He pulls off his clothes and climbs into bed, throwing the covers over his head as he decides to go to practice in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

A few weeks pass by, and Washijou still hasn’t acknowledged Eita. He practices with the others when asked, and he does the drills as told, but volleyball fails to hold the charm it had before. He jump-serves and puts all of his emotions into the slam of his palm against the ball, watching as it lands on the service line.

 

There are eyes on him.

 

Shirabu is staring from across the gym, one hand clutching a towel, one arm raised to bring his water bottle to his lips.

 

Eita blinks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day Washijou finally talks to Eita is the day he tells him that Shirabu convinced him to let Eita act as a pinch server.

 

“Don’t mess this up, Semi.”

 

Eita feels something inside of him fracture, but he nods all the same.

 

“Yes, Coach.”

 

Stupid Shirabu. Stupid, stupid boy. If he thought getting Eita the pinch server position would make things better, he thought _wrong_.

 

And things were going so well, too. He could see an improvement in his marks, could converse with his teammates again, was even taking a liking to his underclassman.

 

As he walks back onto court, the last of his anger dissipates, giving way to something indescribable. Shirabu looks wary, and rightfully so, but Eita just can’t bring himself to care anymore.

 

 

-X-

 

  

“Semi? Semi, I know I wasn’t supposed to go behind your back,” Kenjirou sprints out of the changing room to catch up with the other boy, nearly slipping flat on his face as he skids in front of him. “But it was for you, don’t you see?”

 

Where Eita’s expression had been open with betrayal and hurt when Washijou broke the news, it now rests as his usual, neutral scowl.

 

A beat passes.

 

“It was for you, Semi,” Kenjirou repeats, his voice starting to rise in volume. Eita merely turns around, readjusting the gym bag on his shoulder before resuming his walk back to the dorms. “And aren’t you at least a little happy that you’re not just a benchwarmer anymo—Semi!”

 

Kenjirou is _panicking_. He’s never seen Semi so detached, so calm, so… apathetic. Not towards him, anyways.

 

“Semi-sa—senpai, please,” he calls out as he rushes forward and grabs the older boy’s arm. Eita shows no signs of slowing down, or even that he feels Kenjirou’s presence on his arm at all. Struggling to stop the boy, Kenjirou almost trips on his own feet, once, twice, six times. Eita pays him no mind.

 

After doing a detour around the athletics building, it’s clear that Kenjirou should just give up and let the other boy cool off, just like in the past—but in the past, Eita’s never ignored him. Not like this. He’s always been _pissed_. That same anger isn’t there now, and this Eita is a whole new beast that Kenjirou doesn’t know how to tame.

 

“I know, I’m a bad person, you didn’t need me to convince Coach to give you the pinch server position, I just,” Kenjirou pants, desperate. “I just wanted to help you—I felt guilty for taking your spot and I let it get to me, I know you’re more than that, _you_ know I think better of you. Semi-senpai?”

 

They’re almost at the dorms now, and thank the deities of the universe that they live in the same building, because Kenjirou is _not_ about to give up.

 

“You have more pride than that, I know, _I know_ ,” Kenjirou pleads. “You didn’t need my help, I fucked it up, I fucked _us_ up, _please_ just talk to me—!”

 

Eita uses his free hand to rummage around his bag for the fob and his keys, smoothly avoiding any further contact with Kejirou.

 

“Yell at me, tell me I’m an awful person!” Eita doesn’t bother holding the door open for longer than necessary. “Talk to me,” he whisper-yells as they move through the main lobby. “Talk to me!”

 

While they take the stairs up to the third floor, Eita unwillingly drags a scrambling Kenjirou along with him.

 

“Semi, Semi, _Semi,”_ the brunet huffs, a manic desperation in his breathless voice. It’s getting so hard to swallow around the lump in his throat, so hard to see through the way the world seems to be a watercolour mural of dirty beige floors and ugly maroon walls and Eita, Eita, _Eita_.

 

They reach room 311, and Eita hasn’t so much as acknowledged Kenjirou’s presence. This can’t be over so soon, and yet, Kenjirou was raised better than to intrude unwelcomed into somebody else’s space, borrowed and temporary as it was.

 

“ _Eita,_ talk to me.” Kenjirou pulls at his last straws, bottom lip quivering. “Please.”

 

The lock turns with a click, and Kenjirou reluctantly lets him go, watching as the door closes shut.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at/with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/semischeisse)


End file.
